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COPYRIGHT DEPOSnn 



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TEN GREAT LITTLE POEMS 



PUBLISHER'S NOTE 

Whereas^ The edition of this book is limited 
to one thousand copies, full count; and whereas, 
owing to a contract with the Burrelle Clipping 
Bureau, it is desirable to send one-third of the 
edition to the general press; and, whereas the 
author has many friends and acquaintances who 
are always keen to receive autograph copies of 
his books, on account of their handy size for 
shaving paper: therefore, it is to be hoped that 
the purchasing public will show the same degree 
of solicitous consideration in the matter of sup- 
ply and demand that they have shown in the 
past. 

Respectfully, 

C. M. POTTERDON. 



TEN GREAT LITTLE 
POEMS 

NOT BY THE OLD MASTERS 



PICKED UP ADRIFT 
BY 

WILLIAM TIMOTHY CALL 



Price, 50 Cents 



HAWTHORNE, N. J. 

C. M. POTTERDON 
1911 






Copyright, 1911, by 
WILLIAM TIMOTHY CALL 



^^■ 



©CI,A2972G2 



PREFACE 



When music ceases to please mankind, 
thought expressed in verse, poetry, will be a 
dead cock in the pit. 

I have thought it necessary to shock the 
reader at the start, in order to get a level. 

There are no weights or measures, no rules 
or guides, by which you can fix the worth of 
a poem. True lovers of poetry are not neces- 
sarily lovers of true poetry — if there is such 
a thing. They range themselves naturally and 
honestly into three classes: the aristocrats, 
who love the poetry that other aristocrats have 
loved ; the dilettanti, who love the poetry that 
no one else loves; and the illiterati, who love 
the poetry that amuses or awes them. 

This booklet is not addressed to any of those 
classes. It is for nondescripts — persons who 
form their own judgments regardless of 
authority. Consequently these pages reflect 



merely a personal opinion, and the personal 
pronoun is used throughout the remarks, be- 
cause they express a personal opinion, and 
because the writer is a nondescript lover of 
verse — himself no versifier. 

W. T. Call. 
New York, 
August, 191 1. 



TEN GREAT LITTLE 
POEMS 



Many times, in varying moods and tenses, 
I have given my imagination a holiday, with 
this question to play with: What short poem 
in the English language would you best like 
to have written? The answer has steadfastly 
been: This is it. 

In attempting to analyze this notion of a 
nondescript lover of poetry, I have put the 
blame where it would rest easiest; that is, on 
Edgar Allan Poe. That scalawag wrote a 
lecture on The Poetic Principle that I have 
never been able to cut with acid. Years ago 
I asked R. H. Stoddard, America's watchdog 
of good literature, whether Poe had as clean 
an intellect as Blaise Pascal; and the old czar 
swore so about Poe that I saw he was not 



talking about the thing I was thinking about. 
Anyway, I blame Poe for any of my own 
follies in poetic taste. In my notion of ex- 
cellence in poetry, it is expression — the actual 
verbal statement, that is the thing, regardless 
of the loftiness or profundity of the idea. Any 
one can think poetry. 

To resume. I found in attempting to 
analyze my notion that my liver acted badly 
in the presence of art in expression, and I 
discovered that that silly organ easily gave up 
its ghost in the presence of TENDERNESS — 
the presiding spirit of De Massa ob de Sheep- 

for. 

Again and again (for I can not see into a 
poem until I have read it many times) I went 
over Psalm xxiii, Tennyson's Tears, Idle 
Tears, Eugene Field's wonderful gems, and 
all the others of kin familiar to me, but back I 
came to my truelove. 

Of the birth and career of this poem I know 
nothing at first hand. It would be a large 
book that would contain all that has been said 
in praise of it by others. The following note 
was clipped from the New York Sun during 
the lifetime, I think, of Charles A. Dana, 
its editor, whose anthology. The Household 

8 



Book of Poetry, is unexcellable in taste and 
judgment: 

DE MASSA OB DE SHEEPFOL' 

A friend has robbed his cherished scrapbook 
to send in a clipping of the first appearance of 
the poem in The Sun. The question was then 
asked who was the author. This further com- 
ment was made: "Without regard to the dialect, 
this is one of the most beautiful poems in the 
English language. We have attributed it to Mr. 
Joel Chandler Harris of Atlanta, the author of 
'Uncle Remus,' but he says that it is not his." It 
was later identified as being the work of Sally 
Pratt Maclean Greene, author of "Cape Cod 
Folks." It is found in Stedman's "American 
Anthology," page 635. Set to music by J. M. 
Whyte, it appears in the program of the jubilee 
(1891) of the Freedmen's Aid Society. It was 
also set to music by John Kimball Reynolds and 
published by R. L. Durant of Los Angeles. 

In my search during many years for un- 
crowned waifs and strays I have not found it 
a simple matter to isolate a rarity in the rich 
wildwood of modern verse. The wandering 
eye, the listless ear, and the satiated fancy 
appeal for rest, and there seems to be no new 
thing under the sun. Then is the time to get 



out your checker-board, or your solitaire pack, 
or take a dose of Kant. The soothing effect 
of those antidotes for poetry poisoning opens 
the inner eye to the conviction that dialect is 
a powerful imp in giving atmosphere to verse. 
Note its effect in that popular little wastrel of 
the periodical press, the Wessex Love Song, 
beginning thus : 

Hast thee heerd the culver dove, 
When the woods be green, 

Zingen to his mate o' love 
Arl his heart do mean ? 

At the other end of the poetic procession, 
observe what the solemn style (which I choose 
to class as dialect) does for the twenty-third 
Psalm ; which Mayor Gaynor, discussing man's 
intellectual advancement, points to as match- 
less. 

So I think the charm of the poem we have 
at last come to not a little due to the cut of 
its clothing: 



10 



-THE LOST SHEEP 

De massa ob de sheepfol', 
Dat guard de sheepfol' bin, 

Look out in de gloomerin' meadows 
Whar de long night rain begin — 

So he call to de hirelin' shepa'd, 
Is my sheep, is dey all come in? 

On den says de hirelin* shepa'd, 
Dey's some, dey's black and thin, 

And some, dey's po' ol' wedda's. 
But de res' dey's all brung in, 
But de res* dey's all brung in. 

Den de massa ob de sheepfol', 
Dat guard de sheepfol' bin, 

Goes down in the gloomerin* meadows, 
Whar de long night rain begin — 

So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol', 
Callin' sof, "Come in, come in !" 
Callin' sof, "Come in, come in!" 

Den up t'ro de gloomerin' meadows, 

T'ro de col' night rain an* win*. 
And up t'ro de gloomerin' rain paf, 

Whar de sleet fa' pie'cin' thin, 
De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol', 

Dey all comes gadderin' in: 
De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol*, 

Dey all comes gadderin* in. 

II 



II 

Here is a poem not so well known as the 
preceding. In my estimation it stands unex- 
celled in the class I like to regard as repre- 
senting MAJESTY. 

Quick from the poetry lover's mind will 
come the challenge : ''What ! Do you dare to 
match this obscure creature against the ar- 
mored brain children of the masters ?" 

To this I reply : "Yes, I must." Go to your 
anthologies, your golden treasuries, your 
private collections; bring out your favorites, 
sort out your unbeaten champions, send forth 
your Goliath. Perchance you may choose 
Byron's Ocean; or maybe you are a Kipling- 
ite (I am, as to his poetry) — but I know most 
of your gladiators quite well, and I take off 
my hat to them with reverence whenever we 
chance to meet. Still I have put my money on 
this little David, and there it shall remain. 

My clipping credits these stately stanzas to 
Florence Earle Coates. I have made no effort 
to verify the text or to learn anything about 
its history. It is enough for the purpose of 
these rambling pages to give what I have 
found just as I found it: 



12 



DEATH 

I am the key that parts the gates of Fame ; 
I am the cloak that covers cowering Shame ; 
I am the final goal of every race; 
I am the storm-tossed spirit's resting-place : 

The messenger of sure and swift relief, 
Welcomed with wailings and reproachful grief; 
The friend of those that have no friend but me, 
I break all chains and set all captives free. 

I am the cloud that, when Earth's day is done, 
An instant veils an unextinguished sun ; 
I am the brooding hush that follows strife. 
The waking from a dream that Man calls — Life ! 



13 



Ill 

I have often wondered whether the creator 
of Finnigin laid him down on paper with the 
same ease and celerity that Doctor Johnson 
put down Rasselas. If he did, the whole thing 
must have been in the womb of his brain the 
proper period, for it is perfect. 

In vain I have searched Hood, Holmes, 
Harte, Saxe, Boker, and the poetry corners of 
the ephemeral press for its superior as a word 
mosaic. It is, in my opinion, the apotheosis 
of CLEVERNESS. Here we have a jewel 
in the rough. Cut it to purity, and we have — 
Tennyson — no one else. 

I am aware that this juxtaposition will jolt 
the susceptibilities of the cognoscenti. But 
who can abide a judicious lover! Poe said he 
considered Tennyson the noblest poet of them 
all. Me, too. Taine, who knew English liter- 
ature better than any Englishman that ever 
lived, may have made a lapsus in preferring 
one of his own countryman to our Englis4i- 

14 



man. As to that, I do not know; but I do 
know that you must read a poem in the lan- 
guage in which it was written, or you must 
read two different poems at once. Imagine 
Finnigin in French ! 

Now what I say is that in the fine purple 
of the Bugle Song and the homespun of this 
tatterdemalion I see no choice as to the art 
of the workmanship. 

Ralph A. Lyon, writing from Baltimore, 
February i, 1906, to the New York Times, 
says: "Strickland W. Gillilan, the author of 
Finnigin to Flannigan, told me that the verses 
had been stolen and mutilated so often that 
he almost felt like giving up the task of try- 
ing to father them." 

The text here used is that of a clipping 
crediting the verses to S. W. Gillilan, with 
acknowledgment to Life: 



15 



FINNIGIN TO FLANNIGAN 

Superintindint wuz Flannigan; 
Boss av the siction wuz Finnigin; 
Whiniver the kyars got offen the thrack 
An' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back, 
Finnigin writ it to Flannigan, 
Afther the wrick wuz all on agin ; 
That is, this Finnigin 
Repoorted to Flannigan. 

Whin Finnigin furst writ to Flannigan, 
He writed tin pages, did Finnigin. 
An' he tould jist how the smash occurred; 
Full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrd 
Did Finnigin write to Flannigan 
Afther the cars had gone on agin. 
That wuz how Finnigin 
Repoorted to Flannigan. 

Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin 
He'd more idjucation, had Flannigan; 
An' it wore 'm clane and complately out 
To tell what Finnigin writ about 
In his writin' to Muster Flannigan. 
So he writed back to Finnigin: 
"Don't do sich a sin agin; 
Make 'em brief, Finnigin!" 



i6 



Whin Ffnnigin got this from Flannigan, 

He blushed rosy rid, did Finnigin ; 

An' he said: "I'll gamble a whole month's pa-ay 

That it will be minny an' minny a da-ay 

Befoore Sup'rintindint, that's Flannigan, 

Gits a whack at this very same sin agin. 

From Finnigin to Flannigan 

Repoorts won't be long agin." 

Wan da-ay on the siction av Finnigin, 

On the road sup'rintinded by Flannigan, 

A rail give way on a bit av a curve 

An' some kyars went off as they made the swerve. 

"There's nobody hurted," sez Finnigin, 

"But repoorts must be made to Flannigan." 

An' he winked at McGorrigan, 

As married a Finnigin. 

He wuz shantyin' thin, wuz Finnigin, 

As minny a railroader's been agin, 

An' the shmoky ol' lamp wuz burnin* bright 

In Finnigin's shanty all that night— 

Bilin' down his repoort, was Finnigin. 

An' he writed this here: "Muster Flannigan: 

Off agin, on agin. 

Gone agin — Finnigin." 



17 



IV 



In the old days of scientific rhetoric we were 
all taught the elements of the sublime and the 
beautiful, crystallized into formulas by the 
schoolmen. Now here are some stanzas, cred- 
ited in my clipping to Jerome W. Turner, with 
acknowledgment to the Atlanta Constitution, 
that could hardly be used to exemplify the 
canons of the sublime or the beautiful, be- 
cause they represent REALISM. Not the 
realism of Flaubert, but that of Howells when 
he is not dressed up and stuck up. 

Henry Watterson used to like to write about 
Single Poem Poets, but he missed some of 
them. 

There was a time when I thought it was a 
toss-up between Keats and Hood as to who 
had a poetic cinch on the fish. I did not at- 
tempt to set up as a contestant that popular 
classic by Professor Beers, beginning, 

A whale of great porosity, 
And small specific gravity, 

Dived down with much velocity, 
Beneath the sea's concavity, 



because they say a whale is not a fish. But 
I know that minnows (the proper spelling, I 
think, is minnies) are fish, for I have seen 
them hundreds of times in the Penobscot 
River, and I have seen the sawdust there, 
and I have seen the teeth of steel that 
bit the logs that produced the sawdust that 
came from the boards that made the house 
that many a Jack built. Furthermore, I have 
seen the minnies push the sawdust about in 
just the same way the pensive poet who wrote 
these gentle stanzas must have seen them. 

After you have read this slowly three times, 
recite The Brook, inaudibly, once, and see 
whether that masterpiece does not help you to 
admire its little brother: 



19 



SAWDUST 

The mill-saw with its teeth of steel 
Bites through the log upon the tram, 

And drops the dust like golden meal 
Into the stream below the dam. 

It floats in long procession down — 
Puts golden fringe on the water's edge, 

Or rests in nooklets green and brown, 
And shines like sparks among the sedge. 

Now swims a particle away 

And minnows push it here and there, 
As boys at football love the play 

On summer days in the summer air. 

The water shouts in cheering tones. 
As float the shining masses down 

Around the curves, among the stones. 
And past the busy trade-blind town. 

And still the saw with teeth of steel 
Bites through the log upon the tram, 

And drops its food like golden meal 
Into the stream below the dam. 



20 



Pragmatism is a new brand of philosophy, 
or, rather, as Mr. James put it, a new name for 
old ways of thinking. The old philosophy had 
as its major premise, Nothing succeeds like 
success, though not expressed in those vulgar 
words. The cornerstone of pragmatism is, as 
its wise guys point out, Does it work ? 

Using the pragmatic method instead of the 
Aristotelian, we are not only able to say fare- 
well to the following poem, so dear to the ears 
of the lovers of formal logic. 

Iron is a metal; 

All metals are elements; 

Therefore iron is an element; 

but we are able to get right down to tacks, 
and do the stunt without the use of a net. The 
question before us is to find out whether Casey 
at the Bat is a great poem or is not a great 
poem. All we have to do then is to apply 
Mr. James's touchstone: Does it work? 

The answer is as simple as the method. If 
it doesn't work, then nothing in all literature 
ever did work. 

Where is there from the days of the harpist 

21 



to the era of Honus Wagner a sweeter morsel 
than the last stanza of this pragmatic poem ? 

When I read Casey, as I do every time he 
comes my way, for some reason which I am 
unable to account for by pragmatism, I find 
myself saying: 

Up from the meadows rich with corn. 
Clear in the cool September morn, 
The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 

I have always loved Barbara Frietchie be- 
cause of the magical effect of the wording on 
a naturally weak visualizing faculty. I see 
pictures in the empty air when I read Barbara, 
and I feel, as by telepathy, the piteous agony 
of the crowd when I read Casey. Surely, 
surely Casey is a great poem. It stands to 
me for VIVIDNESS. 

My clippings show that this poem is by 
Ernest L. Thayer; that he was graduated at 
Harvard in 1885 ; that he went to California 
and joined the staff of the San Francisco 
Examiner; and that Casey was printed first in 
that newspaper, the date being Sunday, June 
3, 1888. 

Well, here he is : 

22 



CASEY AT THE BAT 

It looked extremely rocky for the Boston nine that 

day; 
The score stood two to four, with but an inning 

left to play. 
So, when Cooney died at second, and Burrows did 

the same, 
A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of 

the game. 

A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the 

rest, 
With that hope which springs eternal within the 

human breast, 
For they thought: "If only Casey could get a 

whack at that," 
They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the 

bat. 

But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did 
Blake, 

And the former was a pudd'n', and the latter was 
a fake. 

So on that stricken multitude a death-like silence 
sat, 

For there seemed but little chance of Casey's get- 
ting to the bat. 



23 



But Flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment 

of all, 
And the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off 

the ball." 
And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what 

had occurred, 
There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a- 

huggin' third. 

Then, from the gladdened multitude went up a 

joyous yell. 
It rumbled in the mountain tops, it rattled in the 

dell; 
It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the 

flat; 
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the 

bat. 



There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped 

into his place. 
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on 

Casey's face; 
And when responding to the cheers he lightly 

doffed his hat, 
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey 

at the bat. 



Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his 

hands with dirt, 
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped 

them on his shirt; 

24 



Then when the writhing pitcher ground the ball 

into his hip, 
Defiance glanced in Casey's eye, a sneer curled 

Casey's lip. 

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling 

through the air. 
An' Casey stood a-watchin' it in haughty grandeur 

there. 
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded 

sped; 
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," 

the umpire said. 

From the benches, black with people, there went 

up a muffled roar, 
Like the beating of storm waves on the stern and 

distant shore; 
"Kill him ! kill the umpire !" shouted some one on 

the stand; 
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not 

Casey raised his hand. 

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's 

visage shone; 
He stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go 

on; 
He signalled to the pitcher, and once more the 

spheroid flew; 
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, 

"Strike two." 

25 



"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and the 
echo answered "Fraud !" 

But one scornful look from Casey and the audi- 
ence was awed; 

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw 
his muscles strain, 

And they knew that Casey wouldn't let the ball go 
by again. 

The sneer is gone from Casey's lips, his teeth are 

clenched in hate. 
He pounds with cruel vengeance his bat upon the 

plate ; 
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he 

lets it go, 
And now the air is shattered by the force of 

Casey's blow. 

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is 

shining bright. 
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere 

hearts are light; 
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere 

children shout. 
But there is no joy in Boston: mighty Casey has 

struck out. 



26 



VI 

This poem first came to my attention many 
years ago in, I think, the New York Ledger. 
It is by Josephine Pollard, who wrote much in 
verse and prose that is praiseworthy. This 
piece has been greatly esteemed for its fine 
expression of a strong but gentle passion. 
The last stanza may perhaps be criticised as 
an imaginative exaggeration that rather mars 
than heightens the effect produced by the feel- 
ing brought out in those preceding it. To my 
mind this piece realizes in verse the limits of 
the EMOTIONAL. 

I have found the devices here employed in 
two or three closely similar productions of the 
greater poets. Similarities and even identities 
are common enough in versicular literature. 
In the ethics of the poets, it is not he who 
does the thing first, but the one who does it 
best that is entitled to the laurel: 



27 



LOVE'S POWER 

If I were blind, and thou shouldst enter 
E'er so softly in the room, 

I should know it, 

I should feel it, 
Something subtle would reveal it, 
And a glory round thee center 
That would lighten up the gloom, 
And my heart would surely guide me. 
With Love's second-sight provide me, 
One amid the crowd to find. 

If I were blind ! 

If I were deaf, and thou hadst spoken 
Ere thy presence I had known, 

I should know it, 

I should feel it, 
Something subtle would reveal it. 
And the seal at once be broken 
By Love's liquid undertone. 
Deaf to other, stranger voices, 
And the world's discordant noises — 
Whisper, wheresoe'er thou art, 

'Twill reach my heart ! 

28 



If I were dead, and thou shouldst venture 
Near the coffin where I lay, 

I should know it, 

I should feel it, 
Something subtle would reveal it. 
And no look of mildest censure 
Rest upon that face of clay. 
Shouldst thou kiss me, conscious flashes 
Of Love's fire through Death's cold ashes 
Would give back the cheeks its red. 

If I were dead! 



29 



VII 



I wanted some poem to stand for the SEN- 
TIMENTAL. As I understand it, the senti- 
mental in poetry means something that big- 
wigs and highbrows disdain, but which, never- 
theless, always brings the great crowd to its 
feet with the mighty shout — "How true !" So 
I selected this poem from my collection, for 
I consider it the best job in this line that ever 
was done. 

When in my early youth, searching for a 
piece to speak, I came across something I 
liked in the yellowing Readers, Repositories, 
and Garlands, I usually found that it was by 
Anon. To my boyish fancy. Anon seemed to 
be a very old and very popular writer. My 
clipping says that the poem we are now com- 
ing to is by the same dear old Anon. I know 
better, but I am not going to realize Herbert 
Spencer's conception of a tragedy — a general- 
ization killed by a fact — through telling what 
I know of the authorship of this poem. 

30 



The mighty critics of the ponderous press, 
sitting among their cockroaches and caked and 
stinking paste pots (to which, personally, I 
have no objection), may throw their little 
paper darts at this kind of writing, but there 
is not one of them that can turn out anything 
half so good. I would rather try to live on 
chiclets than on their pabulum. 

All together, now: 



31 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 

"Laugh, and the world laughs with you; 
Weep, and you weep alone — " 

For this brave old earth 

Must borrow its mirth, 
It has trouble enough of its own. 

Sing, and the hills will answer; 
Sigh, and 'tis lost on the air. 

The echoes rebound 

To a joyful sound. 
But shrink from voicing care. 

Rejoice, and men will seek you; 
Grieve, and they will turn and go. 

They want full measure 

Of all your pleasure, 
But they do not want your woe. 

Be glad, and your friends are many; 
Be sad, and you lose them all. 

There are none to decline 

Your nectared wine. 
But alone you must drink life's gall. 

32 



Feast, and your halls are crowded ; 
Fast, and the world goes by. 

Succeed and give, 

And it helps you live, 
But it can not help you die. 

There is room in the halls of pleasure 
For a long and lordly train; 

But one by one 

We must all file on 
Through the narrow aisles of pain. 



33 



VIII 

This is my choice to represent the IMAGI- 
NATIVE. In my opinion it is — but take your 
pick: 



fine 


sumptuous 


grand 


lofty 


splendid 


sublime 


beautiful 


majestic 


stately 


elegant 


superb 


gorgeous 


lustrous 


magnificent 



It is real funny, too. 

I do not know who wrote the Romans, and, 
like Eva Tanguay, I don't care. My clipping 
credits it to the Hartford Courant. 

Had this bookee been a work on the game 
of checkers, and that poem a checker prob- 
lem, I would have searched and verified with 
disgusting industry to find out who did it, as 
a matter of simple justice to a fine intellect. 

34 



But in an inconsequential matter of this kind 
I hardly think it worth while to go to so much 
bother, and perhaps get into a mixup with 
some cold-blooded commercializing publisher, 
who would insist on the damning line — "By 
kind permission of Messrs. Muckrake & 
Mush," when as a matter of fact this classic 
belongs to all the people all the time : 



35 



THE MODERN ROMANS 

Under the slighting light of the yellow sun of 

October, 
Close by the side of the car-track a gang of Dagos 

were working; 
Pausing a moment to catch a word of their 

liquid Italian, 
Faintly I heard an echo of Rome's imperial ac- 
cents. 
Broken-down forms of Latin words from the 

Senate and Forum, 
Now smoothed over by use to the musical ligua 

Romana. 
Then the thought came, why, these are the heirs 

of the Romans; 
These are the sons of the men who founded the 

empire of Cassar; 
These are they whose fathers carried the conquer- 
ing eagles 
Over all Gaul and across the sea to Ultima Thule ; 
The race-type persists unchanged in their eyes and 

profiles and figures. 
Muscular, short, and thick-set, with prominent 

noses, recalling 
"Romanes rerum dominos, gentemque togatam." 
See, Labinus is swinging a pick with rhythmical 

motion ; 
Yonder one pushing the shovel might be Julius 

Caesar, 
Lean, deep-dyed, broad-browed, and bald, a man 

of a thousand; 

36 



Further along stands the jolly Horatius Flaccus; 
Grim and grave, with rings in his ears, see Cato 
the censor. 

On the side of the street in proud and gloomy 

seclusion, 
Bossing the job, stood a Celt; the race enslaved 

by the legions. 
Sold in the markets of Rome to meet the expenses 

of Caesar, 
And, as I loitered, the Celt cried out, ''Worruk, ye 

Dagos. 
Full up your shovel, Paythro, ye haythen ! I'll 

dock yees a quarther." 
This he said to the one who resembled the great 

Imperator ; 
Meekly the dignified Roman kept on patiently 

digging. 

Such are the changes and chances the centuries 
bring to the nations. 

Surely the ups and downs of the world are past 
calculation. 

"Possibly thus," I thought to myself, "the yoke 
of the Irish 

May in turn be lifted from us, in the tenth gen- 
eration. 

Now the Celt is on top, but time may bring his 
revenges, 

Turning the Fenian down, once more to be bossed 
by a Dago." 



37 



IX 

Uncle Sam is inclined to smile at Punch 
rather than with him — we are told. 

In the heart of Yankeeland, in the files of a 
Catholic newspaper, are to be found more than 
one specimen that reaches my ideal of what in 
poetry stands for a delicious vein of HUMOR. 
There, and in other places, they are signed, 
T. A. Daly. 

Perhaps if I had read this selection in 
Punch ( I read Punch occasionally at the Press 
Club and in the old Rolfe chop house in John 
Street, Tom Innd, prop., Albert on deck, 
thirty years for mine), I might not have been 
at once so keenly pleased by it. Probably it 
never appeared in Punch, and I do not know 
where it was first printed ; but I do know that 
it has gone the rounds of this broad land. 
That is, it has appeared in every newspaper 
having a competent exchange reader. 

I recall nothing in the standard poets to be 
used as a sounding-board for Domineec, so I 



38 



have dragged in Punch. Now while there is 
no direct perceivable relationship between the 
humor of Punch and that of Daly, the refer- 
ence serves my purpose well enough, for I 
have seen some fine things in Punch that are 
different from fine things that I have seen 
elsewhere. So with Domineec. 

It is as good as Abou Ben Adhem, and 
nothing could be better. 

So here it is: 



39 



PADRE DOMINEEC 

Padre Domineec McCann, 
He ees great beeg Irish man. 

He ees growla w'en he speak, 
Like he gona go for you 
Jus, for busta you in two. 

My ! he talk so rough, so queeck, 
You weel weesha you could be 
Som'where elsa w'en you see 

Padre Domineec. 

Padre Domineec McCann 
Stop at dees peanutta stan' 

W'en my leetla boy ees seeck; 
Talk so rough he mak' me cry, 
Say ees besta boy should die 

So he go to Heaven queeck ! 
He ees speak so cold to me, 
Nevva more I wanta see 

Padre Domineec. 

Den gran' doctor com'. Ees queer ! 
W'en I ask who sand heem here, 

He jus' smile an' weel no speak 
Only justa w'en he say: 
"You no gatta cent to pay, 

I gon' feex dees boy dat's seeck." 

! beeg-hearta man, an' true ! 

1 am gattin' on to you, 
Padre Domineec ! 



40 



X 

This for my last. It is not poetry, it is not 
blank verse, and yet it is something better than 
fine prose. So I have arranged it (without 
transposing words or sentences or in any other 
way tampering with it) in verse form instead 
of in prose form, as I found it. I use it here 
to stand for the CHARM ATI VE (a new word 
for the chop suey). 

No one has ever been able to analyze charm, 
qualitatively or quantitatively. Consequently I 
cannot tell what it is that gives this piece its 
charming effect. I have tried it on temper- 
aments seemingly different from any of mine, 
and watched, not in vain, for low-voiced ap- 
proval. I have never been able to find out 
who wrote it or where it originally appeared. 

Having nothing particular in mind to set 
up by the side of this sort of writing, I turned 
to Literature, Ancient and Modern, by dear 
old Peter Parley. Now Peter Parley picked 
a peck of perfect pippins, and that is the peck 
of perfect pippins that Peter Parley picked. 

41 



He, you know, was one of the fathers of easy 
reading. Then I turned to that restful volume 
for jaded readers, A Book for a Corner, by 
Leigh Hunt, one of the granduncles of easy 
reading. Then I turned to De Foe, one of the 
big grandfathers of easy reading. In all I 
found elusive, indescribable literary charm. 

Of course I hunted for something in Gold- 
smith that would reveal to me the true nature 
and substance of charm. I found the charm in 
plentiful supply, but not the revelation. I 
turned to Burns, and found the soul but not 
the secret. I gave up the quest. You might 
as well see and hear Julia Sanderson in the 
Girl with the Brogue and try to explain what 
it is that makes you shiver with delight. 

By the way, speaking of Bobbie, please read 
slowly the first stanza of what he said to a 
mouse — 



Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 

what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sac hasty, 
Wi' bickering brattle ! 

1 wad be laith to rin an* chase thee 
Wi' murd'ring pattle! 



42 



and the second — 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 

Has broken Nature's social union, 

An' justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 

At me, thy poor earth-born companion. 

An' fellow-mortal ! 

and the — Oh ! it's hard to stop when you are 
reading Burns. 

I do not make any extravagant claims for 
the following piece, but I hope you will like 
it: 



43 



h 



S 



THE MOUSE 

scene: a court of law 

John White (a zvarder) examined: 

My name's John White. 

I am a warder of the gaol in which the prisoner 
was confined for misdemeanor. 

He was convicted twelve months back. Since his 
conviction, his behavior has been marked ex- 
tremely good. 

I know the prosecutor, William Hinde; he also 
is a warder in the gaol. 

I remember well the night you mention. 

Yes, I'll swear it was the thirty-first of May — the 
time was five to nine. 

Hinde went his rounds, and then I heard high 
words, when he was in the cell of number fifty- 
six (the prisoner). 

The latter cried, "You hound !" 

And then I saw Hinde reeling out, blood pouring 
from his lips. 

I said, "What is it?" And he answered me: 

"That beast in there has hit me on the mouth." 

I said, "Whatever made him do it, Hinde?" 

And he replied, "I tried to kill his mouse, accord- 
ing to the Governor's orders." 

This is my evidence, my Lord. 

44 



The Judge (loq.) : 

Prisoner at the bar, since you are not defended 
on your trial by learned counsel, it rests with 
you to urge your own defence. 

You have heard the evidence against you; speak. 

The Prisoner (loq.): 

My Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury : 

I have no wish to cross-examine, or attempt to 
shake the testimony of those who have appeared 
against me. 

In every particular it is correct; what they have 
said is true ; what they have not, I will, craving 
your patience, now recount. 

Near fourteen months ago I was convicted of a 
crime of which I swear I was quite innocent; 
which innocence were fully proved, had not the 
law, alas, debarred my wife from giving evi- 
dence on my behalf, such as alone could clear 
my tarnished fame. 

Ill fortune such as this near broke me down. 

I had lost all, wife, children, home. 

Desolate, I wasted in my prison-cell ; hopeless — 
existing, true — but living not. 

One night, when I was served my humble fare, a 
little mouse crept out upon the floor, and eyed 
askance the dreaded human form. 

I threw some food, and, scared, it scampered off; 
but pangs of hunger lured it out again and made 
it share my meal; a welcome guest. 

So every night it came, until at last it grew so 

45 



tame I fed it from my hand; it slept with me 

and nestled in my sleeve. 
I took it in my pocket when I went for exercise 

with others in the yard ; and much amusement — 

aye — and envy, too, I have excited when I 

showed my prize. 
I had no friends. 
I grew to love this mouse, as these dumb animals 

are often loved by those who find all others cold 

and false. 
One night — it was the fatal thirty-first of May — 

the warder Hinde came to my cell when my 

little pet was sporting on my hand. 
He said, "They talk about this mouse of yours; 

just let me see if it's as tame as White, the 

warder, says; I want to see if it will come and 

feed from my hand if I hold it out." 
Little suspecting this inhuman fiend, I lured my 

little pet, who quaked with fear, unwilling yet 

to court a stranger's touch. 
The cruel hand closed on it, and he laughed. 
"Enough of this !" he cried. "The Governor says 

he won't allow this insubordination; come, bid 

your friend good-bye, I'm going to crush him." 
I sprang erect. Oh, God ! My every nerve tingled 

with fear for my poor little pet. 
"You hound !" I cried ; and then I hit out straight 

into the face of this inhuman fiend. 
Thank God, he dropped the mouse, which, fright- 
ened ran, and found a haven e'en from whence 

it came. 
This is. tny. crime, .and I. am, in your .haads. 

46 



The Judge {sums up) : 

Gentlemen of the Jury: 

I am content, I sum this case as briefly as I can. 

This tale is touching and, I doubt not, true; but 
you must deal with facts, not sentiments; it 
rests with me alone to mitigate the punishment, 
which, be assured, shall be awarded with re- 
spect to law. 

Foreman of the Jury (log.) : 

My Lord, we are agreed, and find the prisoner 
guilty, but most strongly recommend him to the 
mercy of this Court. 

The Judge (delivers sentence) : 

Prisoner at the bar, you stand convicted of an 
assault on William Hinde, your warder, for 
which the sentence of the Court receive, name- 
ly, that you be imprisoned for one day, and that 
without hard labor, to run concurrently with 
the sentence you are undergoing. 

Furthermore, I have here — now, can you bear 
good news? — a packet from the Home Office 
commanding your release, upon a pardon 
granted by Her Majesty the Queen; for now it 
seems another has confessed the crime for 
which you have already suffered wrongfully. 

Thus you are free ; and I may further add, John 
White, the warder has for you outside a little 
friend of yours, unhurt, but caged. 

I wish you well. 

Stop the applause in Court! 

47 



CROWDED OUT 

Yes, this was crowded out, but I am going 
to get it in if the pressman has to tie it to 
the chase, as autocratic editors sometimes say. 
No author's name is mentioned. It is credited 
merely to the Northwest. 

It is hardly fair anyway, to call this a poem 
— it's a word-dance — you can hear the fiddle. 

I'll bet you a dollar you can't read this thing 
through and not move your feet. 

Balance all an' swing yer sweets ! 
Shake yer spurs an' make 'em rattle ! 
Keno ! Promenade to seats. 

Oh, lordy, lordy, how I wish I could have 
written that! 



49 



AN IDAHO BALL 

Git yo' little sage hens ready, 

Trot 'em out upon the floor — 
Line up there, you cusses ! Steady ! 

Lively, now ! One couple more. 
Shorty ! shed thet old sombrero, 

Bronco, douse thet cigarette, 
Stop that cussin', Casimero, 

'Fore the ladies ! Now, all set ! 

S'lute your ladies, all together ! 

Ladies opposite the same — 
Hit the lumber with your leathers ! 

Balance all, an' swing your dame ! 
Bunch the heifers in the middle; 

Circle stags and do-se-do ! 
Pay attention to the fiddle ! 

Swing her round and off you go ! 

First four forward ! Back to places ! 

Second follow — shuffle back ! 
Now you've got it down to cases — 

Swing 'em till their trotters crack ! 
Gents all right a-heel and toeing ! 

Swing 'em, kiss 'em if you kin — 
On to next and keep a-goin' 

Till yer hit yer pards ag'in ! 

50 



Gents to centre ; ladies round 'em, 

Form a basket ; balance all ! 
Whirl yer gals to where you found 'em ! 

Promenade around the hall ! 
Balance to yer pards and trot 'em 

'Round the circle double quick! 
Grab an' kiss 'em while you've got 'em 

Hold 'em to it if they kick ! 

Ladies, left hand to your sonnies ! 

Alaman! Grand right and left! 
Balance all, an' swing yer honeys 

Pick 'em up and feel their heft ! 
Promenade like skeery cattle — 

Balance all an' swing yer sweets ! 
Shake yer spurs an' make 'em rattle ! 

Keno ! Promenade to seats. 



51 



NOCTES AMBROSIANiE 

We may live without poetry, music, and art ; 
we may live without conscience, and live with- 
out heart; we may live without friends; we 
may live without books ; but — 

Lucile, Lucile, the old boys have not for- 
gotten you ! 

Take me back to my salad days and I will 
tell you of a queer kind of tribe of Indians. 
The Old Grapevine was on the corner of Sixth 
Avenue, and it is there yet. Mac was there 
then, and I hope he is there yet ; but I do not go 
to find out, because I prefer to think of things 
as they were rather than be sad with one who 
knows. 

We were a small band of Devilmaycare In- 
dians, but a great many hunters and trappers 
rubbed noses with us from time to time. I 
was the Sagamore of the band, and my top- 
floor back was the favorite camping-ground. 

We raided Mac's oftener than any other 
place, because we liked his pewter, and no- 



53 



where else did the midnight sun shine so pleas- 
antly. 

When Mac was glum we knew just how to 
switch him. It was only necessary to ask him 
about the old New Yorkers who were among 
his patrons. "Do you know any of the As- 
tors?" some one would slyly inquire. The 
cloud would then slowly lift, as Mac paused 
to reply: "Well, now, let me think. I don't 
know John J. or William W., but I am very 
well acquainted with Tony P." If Mac is 
alive to-day I'll bet he still tells of his ac- 
quaintance with Tony P. 

Among our braves were little editors, little 
reporters, little space-writers, and little poets, 
with here and there a lusty trout and here and 
there a grayling. There were also some large 
and prosperous bummers. Any one was wel- 
come, regardless of race, color, or previous 
condition, so long as he had not accomplished 
anything worth doing. One of our regulars 
came close to ostracism. It happened in this 
way: 

He wrote a good deal of clean, smooth verse 
that was published and easily forgotten. He 
also wrote a long-story poem that a foolish 
publisher thought the world was just about 

54 



ready for, and he put it out in book form. 
I had read it before publication, and reported 
to the boys thus : "It's all right. It's as smooth 
as slippery elm. It's fine. They will think 
Byron has come back to life." We were a 
happy crowd when the book was born, because 
we felt it would be a deader — and it was. 

Now this fellow had a short poem he had 
not given out that I was afraid might be the 
real thing. I was not cocksure that we had 
not been harboring a genius after all. 

One day, in a kingdom by the sea, this fel- 
low and I meandered down Broadway study- 
ing the signs, a favorite diversion, to see if 
we could not find something to take the place 
of the old Broadway pleasantry, ''I saw you 
in Mclntyre's drug store" (Ewen Mclntyre). 
When we reached Mr. Tweed's monument we 
discovered that we had nothing in our pockets 
to count but that poem, written in a clear, neat 
hand. Passing through to Beekman Street, he 
said to me with a kindling light in his timid 
eye: 

"Wait on the corner here, and I will show 
you what I can do." 

He went straight to a small publishing 
house, and inside of ten minutes, just long 

55 



enough, I felt, for them to see what I had 
seen in the poem, he came up the street, wav- 
ing a small green flag. It was a five- 
dollar bill. I remember well the feeling 
I had as I looked first at him and then 
at William. "Is it possible," I murmured to 
myself, "that we have a genius in our midst?" 
I was rather joyously crestfallen, however, as 
I had nothing of importance in my own midst 
just then. Still, I demanded the facts, and I 
got them before I would budge. My friend 
had done some hack work for that man, and 
he had now proved to be One Noble Pub- 
lisher — and I repoorted the same to Flannigan. 

Mr. Reader, have you ever walked up 
Broadway, before it was spoiled, on a sunny 
afternoon in the early fall, when Lee marched 
over the mountain-wall, and dropped in at 
Wildey's, and Black's, and the Metropolitan, 
watching your tank meter and your gastric 
rheostat carefully, in order to keep the line 
working just right for Sinclair fishballs, a 
Continental sour, and a Park & Tilford cigar? 
That's what we did; for, like Little Willie, 
we knew just what to do. 

Ah ! them was happy days ! 

Nevermore, nevermore! 

S6 



One of our chief delights on ambrosial 
nights was to capture a ninny, take him to 
the wigwam, start a game of pennyante, un- 
load our systems of their accumulation of wit- 
ticism and repartee, and get fixed for the even- 
ing work. That joyful job was to make a 
poet of a ninny. Of course, I do not mean 
that we wanted to make him write poetry, 
but to work on him until we made him feel 
like a poet. 

The course was a simple one, but was varied 
according to the temperature of the brute. 
One case is enough to give a general idea of 
the entire curriculum. He was a young fel- 
low with glistening upper cheeks and a dis- 
solving eye, whose only books were woman's 
looks and folly all they taught him. His cross 
was to search titles for a big insurance com- 
pany that even in those days was strictly a 
philanthropic institution. 

We started in with Don Juan. I may as 
well tell you now that no matter what the 
temperature of the victim, gin or water, beer 
or s'prilla, corncob pipe or cigarette, we could 
always find in Byron what we wanted. All 
up for the Sagamore toast! 



57 



Byron, Byron, Byron! 

Here's a health to thee. Devil Byron ! 

Having soothed our ninny with some of 
those passages in the Don which real human 
beings, Hke Gertrude Atherton, for instance, 
can read without getting blood poisoning, we 
would gradually induct his timorous and 
doubting soul into the arcana of the beautiful. 
I have never known (with one exception) the 
following item from the Don to fail us : 

'Tis sweet to hear the watchdog's honest bark 
Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near 
home ; 

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
Our coming, and look brighter when we come; 

'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark. 
Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum 

Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds. 

The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 

Etc. 

Turn we back to the Hebrew Melodies, and : 

She walks in beauty like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes; 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

Etc. 

58 



Forward all to the Childe : 

Adieu, adieu ! my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
Yon sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his flight; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee, 

My native Land — Good Night ! 

Etc, 

And now we are off for fair. How about 
old Ben? Listen: 

Drink to me only with thine eyes, 

And I will pledge with mine; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup. 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sip, 

I would not change for thine. 

Etc. 



Hand me that Hood: 

Oh, saw ye not fair Ines? 

She's gone into the west, 
To dazzle when the sun is down, 

And rob the world of rest; 



59 



She took our daylight with her, 

The smiles that we love- best, 
With morning blushes on her cheek, 

And pearls upon her breast. 

Etc. 

For heaven's sake, give me my Willis: 

On the cross-beam, under the Old South bell, 
The nest of a pigeon is builded well. 
In summer and winter that bird is there. 
Out and in with the morning air; 
I love to see him track the street, 
With his wary eye and active feet; 
And I often watch him as he springs, 
Circling the steeple with easy wings. 
Till across the dial his shade has passed, 
And the belfry edge is gained at last; 
'Tis a bird I love, with his brooding note, 
And the trembling throb in his mottled throat. 

Etc. 



And now we begin to mount. Up, up we 
go to Keats and Shelley: 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! 

Bird thou never wert, 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Etc, 

60 



Well, here we are at last to the final test. 
If our ninny can see this we have him for 
keeps and Keats: 

St. Agnes Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was! 

The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; 
The hare limped trembling through the frozen 
grass, 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold; 
Numb were the beadsman's fingers while he told 

His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
Like pious incense from a censer old. 

Seemed taking flight for heaven without a 

death. 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer 
he saith. 

Full on the casement shone the wintry moon, 
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast. 

Etc. 

Tis done. Another soul saved from hell. 
He's ours! 

The morning sun comes peeping over the 
hills, comes peeping over the hills. 

It is the morrow. I am sitting at the proof 
table. In comes Mr. Ninny. 

"Hello, Bill ; that was a great night for me. 
I like it, I do." 

6i 



"Yes, yes ; it's all right, if you don't get too 
much of it." 

"I guess that's so. By the way, Sagamore, 
what are gules?" 

I draw the curtain. The jig is up. I knew 
instantly what was in his mind. 

"Why," I said, "Eimer & Amend make a 
specialty of gules. You can get all you want 
for ten cents. You don't have to warm them." 

My thoughts being so fixed on the old boys, 
for whose diversion these pages have been 
printed, I have overlooked the fact that there 
may be youngsters of theirs who are doing 
much the same as the old fellows did. To 
those youngsters I address a few lines of ad- 
vice from experience. 

There is nothing in reason or theology to 
restrain you from loving many things. You 
may love success, without harm ; you may love 
money, without injury; you may love poetry, 
without disaster ; you may love a woman, with- 
out fear of recovery — but I charge you — you 
must not love children — you might lose them. 

I see it now, as clear and sharp as the light- 
ning's streak — the white bed — the gentle little 
face, just bathed by loving hands — the hair 
smoothed back from the fine forehead — the 

62 



strain of anxiety passing from the eyes of the 
two watchers — merely an ill-turn, this — all 
better, now — to-morrow will be a glad day 
again — but what is this he says — "I see two 
papas and two mammas, and I love them both 
the same." — My God! my God! He has gone 
— gone — that boy — that little gentleman ! — our 
boy — my boy ! — Now is the time — and I pinion 
her arms to her side and hold that poor in- 
sane woman in a vise. It is my duty, because 
I am a man. 

A few steps up Mahonia path in Greenwood, 
near one of the large trees, is a fair-sized stone 
bearing the two names. It shows that one was 
about a year and a half old, and the other 
fourteen. The observer may think that it 
would have been complete if there had been 
another, say about midway between these ages. 
Ha ! ha ! It is complete. 

Sunday after Sunday, summer and winter, 
you may find there a commonplace man and 
woman, moving about in the usual way, talk- 
ing of the grass, or the flowers, or the ever- 
green, sometimes smiling — never weeping — no 
tears there — it's four years now. No, sir. You 
must go down into the cellar when you hear 
the coal rattling, and catch the man working— 

63 



you must go up on the second floor and catch 
the woman on her knees — merely tidying up 
the old school-books, if you are a student of 
life, and want some of its minor details. Then, 
then, you may find out something that Christ 
himself never knew ! 

Now, youngsters, that's all you are going 
to get from me. I am truly obliged to you for 
this opportunity, for I have been bursting to 
tell it to some one, all these long years, and 
I had never thought of you. Of course I 
could not tell it to her, because she is a woman, 
and it is my duty to clothe and support her. 

To resume. The toughest case we ever had 
to deal with was a combination mule. He was 
six in one, namely: a chemist, a court officer, 
a Jesuit (I guess), a classical scholar (he 
always pronounced it Kikero), a chess player, 
and a murderer (of the violin). 

Now the editor of the Gotham Weekly 
Gazette, to which I at one time contributed, 
without adequate remuneration a rather newsy 
column under the caption, "Brooklyn Breath- 
ings," says the best joke ever written is that 
in which the country jay, seeing a giraffe for 
the first time, exclaimed : "Hell ! there ain't no 
such animal !" I respectfully beg to differ. I 

64 



think the best joke is the old-timer in which 
a fly Ht above the staff of the cornet player, 
and he played the fly. 

We tried this idea on our fiddling friend by 
carefully altering his score at a point that we 
thought might perhaps cause him to break a 
string, instead of sawing it off. It was a fail- 
ure. His eyes bulged a little more than usual, 
but that was all the effect we could get. Then 
we gave it up, and told him he could go to 
hell if he wanted to. 

The only good he ever was to us was to 
enable us to make what we believed to be a 
new definition, thus: CHALCEDONY— A 
plastic substance having a soul. 

Once upon a time I was asked whether I 
had ever written a poem. 

I had. 

It seemed so easy a thing to do that I de- 
cided to try it; but I determined it should not 
be like anything Byron ever wrote. The sub- 
ject I particularly liked was : "A Vision of 
Loveliness." At any cost, it must be realism. 
So I struck off this line and an eighth: 



Nor freckle, pimple, mole, nor wart 
Has she. 



fO^ 65 



Beyond that I was unable to go. So I 
changed the subject to "Nodhead Apples," be- 
cause I used to regard the flavor of those 
apples as truly exquisite. I finished that one, 
and sent it in gratuitously, but no one printed 
it. 

If Artemus Ward had been one of our In- 
dians he would probably have called me an 
amoosin' cuss in some things. Anyway, I had 
made up my mind that that poem might, could, 
would, and should, may, can, and must be 
printed. So I took a stick, went to the L. P. 
case, set up the poem, took it to the proof- 
press, wet the paper with a sponge, and rolled 
the log. 

Behold the miracle ! My poem was printed 
• — edition limited to one copy. I pasted that 
copy in my personal scrap-book, and it is there 
now. Following is a true transcript: 

Nodheads ; 

They are in the market — 

Nodhead apples from New England trees; 

In my boyhood how they bobbed among the 
leaves. 
How they toppled in the breeze — 
Nodhead apples on New England trees. 



66 



Tetoskies grew there in that garden ; 

Dangled high the ruddy Dane, 
Baldwin, Winter Sweet, Russet, and that beauty — 

The almost purple Blue Pearmain. 

But the Nodheads in the corner, 
And the green light shadows there. 
And the crooked trunk and branches, 
And the dappled windfalls huddling, 
Where the grass and weeds grew tall. 
Near the moss-grown tumbled-down stonewall — 
Nodhead apples from 
New England trees ; 
In the market now you'll find them. 

It is said that a publisher is a blockhead — 
that he does not know a good thing when he 
sees it. Believing that, and being now a pub- 
lisher of my own poem, I resolved to have a 
parley, a la De Foe's Captain Singleton. So 
I sought one of my primordial enemies, and 
said : 

''Will you give me your opinion of my 
poem ?" 

"Do you call that a poem?" 

"That is not for me to say. Do you not 
call it a poem?" 

*T do not call it anything. What does it 
mean ?" 

"Can't you see what it means ?" 

^7 



*'Do you expect me to see nothing?" 

''What do you mean by nothing?" 

''Nothing — not any thing." 

"Then in your opinion that is not a poem; 
but can you tell me why it is not a poem?" 

"Do you expect me to prove a nullity ?" 

"A nullity?" 

"A nullity." 

"I suppose not; but will you kindly tell me, 
as man to man, what you would call it if you 
had to call it something?" 

"Punk." 

"Punk?" 

"Punk." 

"Punkr 

"P-U-N-K !" 

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun 
is shining bright. The band is playing some- 
where, and somewhere hearts are light; and 
somewhere — 

Some time after this catastrophe three or 
four of us were sitting in Mac's at the table 
near the stove, sipping hot Scotch. There was 
to be a change on the morrow. We were about 
to break camp. The subject of wealth and 
ambition came up. The name of a very rich 
man was mentioned. 

68 



"I do not envy him," I said. 

"Why not?" asked our poet, who was be- 
ginning to lament the years he had wasted. 

''Because," I repHed, "he has had but one 
thought all his life, and can never have any- 
thing now but money." 

"But what can you and I have?" he asked. 

"Memories," I replied. 

"The Sagamore has spoken well," quoth the 
poet. 



69 



ADDENDUM TO THE 
NOCTES 

I was surprised and pleased a few days ago 
to learn how Queed had turned out. I knew 
him quite well, and the others, the Two Queeds, 
first rate. The Indians of the old camping- 
ground always spoke of him as Queered. 

I had no idea there was anything in that 
fellow. But that only shows once more what 
a woman can do. The old umbrella grabber 
at the Astor said he understood Queed had a 
job offered to him somewhere in the South. 
He thought they said Norfolk, but wasn't 
sure. 

''Why," I said, "that four-eyed fish wouldn't 
work!" 

But who this man Harrison is who wrote up 
Queered, I have no idea. He certainly has a 
sweet-scented middle part in his name — Syd- 
nor. Ah, there, Sydnor ! He did a pretty good 
job alleesamee, believee me. Of course, he, 

70 



Sydnor, will go the way they all do — give the 
publishers what they, the publishers, think 
they, the people, want — write for the Saturday 
Morning Pest — and peter, peter, peter. 

As I was saying, I knew Queed quite well. 
One day I met him on the library steps, and 
asked him whether he had read the letter I 
had sent to the Sim over my pseudonym, which 
is as follows: 

LAST PRINCIPLES : BY A BROOKLYN 
STUDENT OF HERBERT SPENCER 

To the Editor of The Sun. 

Sir: — Never having been able to find any sim- 
ple explanation of the doctrine of evolution, I 
here state what I think I have learned from the 
works of Herbert Spencer and others about the 
master key, which seems to be regarded as the 
most important academic discovery of the past 
century. All the phenomena of business, morals, 
religion and physics are now so quickly accounted 
for by those who understand the new philosophy 
that anything which helps to make its meaning 
plain may be regarded as important. 

If my definitions are inaccurate or inadequate, 
perhaps some of your readers may give a clearer 
explanation of the terms here treated: 

I. Evolution is the law by which an event may 
be foretold after it takes place. 

71 



2. Natural selection is the process of choosing 
what you have after you get it. 

3. Survival of the fittest is the method of proof 
by which a living dog becomes better than a dead 
lion. H. C. White. 

Brooklyn^ April 27. 

He had read it, of course, as all he ever did 
do at that time was to read. And that was the 
only time I ever saw him smile. It was a 
terrible sight. But I was bound to get some- 
thing out of him, so I said : 

"Well, what do you think of it?" 
He was himself again in an instant, and re- 
plied in the old touch-me-not style : 
"I don't think I quite understand it." 
A short time after Queered went South, as 
I was cutting through Minetta lane, I ran into 
Tim Queed. 

"Hello, Tim," I cried; "how's graft?" 
"Aeough, pooty good," he replied. 
"It's rumored in society," said I, "that the 
young feller has caught onto a job in Norfolk. 
Is that straight goods ?" I asked. 

"Naeough, they ain't nothin' into it." 
After a moment's pause, I asked : 
"Did you hear how Jim Barclay came near 
getting pinched ?" 

72 



''How's that?" asked Tim, with interest. "I 
thought he had the finest pertection in the Vil- 
lage." 

"Well, you see, Jim was taking his regular 
walk up Sixth avenue, and on the way back 
he lost that flower out of his buttonhole. The 
flatties picked him up for a con man, and 
wouldn't let him go below Fourteenth street 
until Barney Martin came along and identified 
him as Jim Barclay without his flower!" 

I dodged Tim's club, and passed on to get 
my giblet stew in the place where they knew 
how to make a giblet stew. 

But who this man Harrison is who wrote up 
Queered, I have, as I have already said, no 
idea. I don't keep track of them nowadays, 
as I used to. That reminds me that I ought 
to feel older and more dignified than I used to. 
But I don't. I love truth in all its forms or 
disguises the same as ever. Septimus Locke 
says truth is a ghastly thing. I don't believe 
that — yet. I would like to know what that 
fellow Chesterton thinks on the subject. Why, 
I would run a block in the rain now, as I 
have done many a time, to catch up with three 
inches of black silk stocking showing above a 
high-cut button-shoe — if it looked to be true. 

n 



Less than a month ago in Flatbush avenue, 
in the window of a little art store, not far from 
the Orpheum, I stood close to the glass gaz- 
ing at a bunch of truths — naked truths. Along 
came a quartette of civil engineer's helpers 
with their transits, tapes, khaki trousers, and 
persiflage. "That's right. Pop," said one of 
them; "look 'em over, look 'em over." 

Now, as some of the old boys will see this 
booquita of mine, if I can find out where they 
are, I am going to give here a few paragraphs 
from that write-up just to show what a honey- 
pot Queered fell into : 



Engrossed with her papers, she moved toward 
him; but he, with a directness which would not 
flinch even in this untried emergency, deliberately 
intruded himself between her and the table; and 
so once more they stood face to face. 

"I don't understand you," he began, his man- 
ner at its quietest. "Why do you want to do 
this for me?" 

At this close range, slie glanced once at him 
and instantly looked away. His face was as 
white as paper; and when she saw that, her heart 
first stopped beating, and then pounded off in a 
wild, frightened paean. 

"I — can not tell you — I don't know — exactly." 

"What do you mean?" 



74 



She hardly recognized his voice ; instinctively 
she began backing away. 

"I don't think I — can explain. You — rather ter- 
rify me this morning." 

"Are you in love with me?" he demanded in 
a terrible voice, beginning at the wrong end, as he 
would be sure to do. 

Finger at her lip, her blue eyes bright with 
unshed tears, resting upon his in a gaze as direct 
as a child's Sharlee nodded her head up and down. 



75 



L'ENVOI 

When I look over my collection and stop 
with irritation to read once more one of the 
hundreds of fine things I have found, I am 
dumb. How do these people do these things? 
Is it sweat? Is it genius? I can not believe 
in spirits except those that are distilled. Why, 
that's it, after all — Genius is a spirit that is 
distilled from anything that has it in it. 

And now, ye little children of genius : Sally 
(I knew another Sallie once, and I love her 
yet for what she was and proved to be), and 
Florence, and Strickland, and Gerome, and 
Ernest, and Josephine, and Anon, and The 
Roman, and Thomas, and the Llouse, and the 
little Sage Hen, gather around in this far 
night hour, and hear the words of the Saga- 
more: You are not happy; you are like chil- 
dren on a merry-go-round stabbing at and 
missing the worthless little iron ring; I am 
sorry for you ; I am with you, but not of you. 
Worruk, ye Dagos. 

76 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 

VOCABULARY OF CHECKERS 

A dictionary of words, terms, and phrases used 
in the game called Checkers, or English Draughts. 
Cloth, $2.00. 

"It is difficult to believe that so simple a game as checkers 
should have developed so extensive a vocabulary as Mr. William 
Timothy Call has gathered in 'Vocabulary of Checkers.' It 
fills 200 good-sized pages. The author's _ definitions are ency- 
clopaedic, and include a mass of interesting information about 
the game." — N. Y. Sun. 

"To the growing body of checkerists who take an interest in 
the literature of the pastime, and are pleased to view with ap- 
probation the various attempts by high-minded devotees of Dameh 
to add dignity and quiet charm to an otherwise simple and unas- 
suming subject, it will bring keen enjoyment. No matter how 
quaint or provincial, or how modern and precise the term 
sought, it will be found in this remarkable collection. Mr. Call 
must have gone to a great deal of labor to produce so acceptable 
a work, and he is deserving of fullest thanks for the fruit of 
his peculiar genius." — N. Y. Tribune. 



THE LITERATURE OF CHECKERS 

A description of all the books, pamphlets, and 

magazines devoted to the game from 1756 to the 

present day; giving current value of all rare or 

scarce v^orks; 227 entries. Cloth, $1.00. 

"A magnificent and painstaking contribution to draughts litera- 
ture." — Suffolk Chronicle, England. 



R. D. YATES, CHECKER PLAYER 

An intimate biography of the greatest of checker 
players; covering anecdotes, opinions, methods, 
triumphs, all his games in full; incidentally a his- 
tory of checkers in America. Cloth, $1.00. 

"We have rarely read so engrossing a work," — The Umpire, 
Manchester, England. 

THE SAFE CHECKER PLAYER 

Vol. I. — The Black Side. Devoted exclusively to 
play; showing a safe course to the player who 
starts the game, however his opponent may attack 
him at any point. Leather, vest-pocket size, 50 
cents. 

Vol. II. — The White Side. A companion vol- 
ume; showing a safe course to the second player, 
however his opponent may start the game or carry 
out the attack. Leather, vest-pocket size, 50 cents. 
"These little books contain the essence of many volumes of 
published play, and are invaluable as a short but thorough equip- 
ment for the practical player." — Draughts World, Glasgow, Scot- 
land. 

ELLSWORTH'S CHECKER BOOK 

A book for beginners; arranged according to 
suggestions of the late Charles Ellsworth, the pro- 
fessional blind checker player. Paper, 25 cents. 

"Contains, in addition to much that is entertaining, some of 
the most valuable instruction on the rudiments of the game that 
is to be found in any treatise." — Newark Advertiser. 

THE LITTLE GRAMMAR 

Original in every way— new in design, new in 

method, new in doctrine. Large type. Cloth, 50 

cents. 

"To get into thirty-five pages a practically complete English 
grammar, which covers all the irregularities of the English tongue, 
and sets the wanderer right when he goes astray grammatically, 
is truly an achievement. Mr. Call has done a remarkable work 
in this grammar." — Butte Inter Mountain. 

"It comprehends all there is to grammar." — Brooklyn Eagle. 

"It epitomizes in thirty-five pages of concentrated wisdom all 
a boy would be expected to digest from a volume of 350 pages 
in the regular school course." — Albany Argus. 



SCIENTIFIC SOLITAIRE 

A new game of Solitaire, or Patience, based on 
exact calculation, and eliminating memorizing. 
Paper, 20 cents. 

"Any one understanding cards at all can not fail to comprehend 
the author's clear and lucid explanation." — San Francisco Call. 

SHORTHAND FOR GENERAL USE 

Intended for those who would like to be able to 
write shorthand without hesitation, connecting one 
letter with another as freely as in longhand, and 
not be obliged to master a highly scientific treatise 
in order to obtain brevity and speed enough for 
common purposes. Paper, 25 cents. 
"A little book. One of its great recommendations is its sim- 
p'icity." — Rochester Post-Express. 

"Opens up many new avenues." — Cincinnati Star. 

"Any one can utilize it for general work." — Columbus Journal. 

KBOO: The Counting Game 

A scientific, historical pastime, with a past, a 
present, and a future. Paper, 25 cents. 

"Among civilized people, chess and draughts can alone be 
classed as games of pure skill, entirely free from chance. A 
third game, Kboo, equally free from chance, and affording un- 
limited opportunity for the exercise of mental skill, is played 
over the whole of Africa and Southern Asia, and by the negroes 
of the West Indies, but seems never to have been taken up by 
European races." — National Geographers' Magazine. 

TEN GREAT LITTLE POEMS 

This book; 50 cents. 



C. M. POTTERDON 

^Dealer in ChecKer 'BooK^s 
HAWTHORNE, N. J. 

General Sales Agent for W, T. CALL 



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30 19' » 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



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